Oddly, the trip seemed like was over in the blink of an eye. Admittedly, I was distracted, trying to sort out the insanity of what happened at the airport. Throw in that I had a few breakdowns, and the time flew by.
My head is still reeling, and my heart hasn’t stopped beating frantically. Seriously, what are the goddamn odds?
On paper, you could make some sort of sense of it; I met a mysterious man who is my scent-matched Alpha; had a blazing connection with him because, duh, scent-matched Alpha; throw caution to the wind and put my aspirations aside so I could fuck him like my life depended on it; had an amazing few hours; ran into my ex at the airport on my way to getting married; got another reminder my ex is also my scent match; discovered my ex is not an accountant, instead he is with Interpol; found out, from my sneaky ex, that the mystery Alpha from earlier is, in fact, a Cabal—as in, involved in the Cartel!
The dot points look relatively easy to understand, but there are layers—context and emotions—that twist those events into something surprisingly difficult to comprehend. Santiago Cabal is as much of a frustrating enigma as Kade Memphis is. And I’ve never struggled so much with staying on course.
It feels so contrived that now I’m paranoid Victor is somehow involved in the situation, and he arranged the greatest test to my resolve by sending not one but two scent matches my way. As soon as I think it, I know it’s fucking irrational, but at the same time, my poor brain and heart aren’t exactly working properly. I’m completely blindsided, really. I mean, I always knew Kade was my scent match, but then meeting Santiago and Kade showing up at the damn airport?
Each question feeds another, leaving my thoughts circling. But then I spiral further, in a different direction, because how did I not see Kade wasn’t an accountant? How did I not recognize the “bad boy” in Santiago?
And there comes a point, over the middle of the Black Sea, where I ask myself, what is the point of trying to figure anything out when I’m marrying into the Bratva in a few days’ time?
When the noise of the engines finally cuts out, replaced by the rehearsed pleasantries of the flight attendants doing their welcome-to-Russia announcement, I start crashing even harder.
Suddenly I’m questioning what else I missed and doubting if I have the emotional capacity needed to pull this off. The fact I’m alone, on the opposite side of the world, walking into enemy territory finally sinks in. I’m pretty sure I’d be a blubbering mess again, but I cried so much on the flight here, I don’t have any tears left. Which isn’t how I wanted to start my time here.
The blistering cold weather as we disembark feeds my anxiety. And when I walk through customs and into a near-empty arrival lounge, the feeling of being out of my depth somehow reaches a new intensity.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper to myself. I’m scrambling and looking for ideas on what to do when I walk past the bathrooms in the first-class lounge.
I stop dead in my tracks before turning around and practically running into them. There’s no way I can walk out the front of the airport and let anyone see how rattled I am. They’d take one look at me and see a broken little girl; I’d never be able to change how they first saw me. And then Victor would know. He’d think he’d won.
The inside of the bathroom is as extravagant as other first-class lounges around the world, but the best part is, it’s blissfully empty. I couldn’t bear sharing the space with anyone else.
I’ve always done my best thinking while having a hot shower, the troubles never seem as large. By the time I’ve used the facilities and I’m walking out the doors of the airport, it's late at night, and snow is falling, but I’m in a better headspace. Surviving isn’t anything new.
Given the cold weather and the time, it’s hardly surprising there’s only a handful of people around. The way they watch is unnerving and instantly reminds me of the underhanded men who work for my father. Seeing them, recognizing them for who they are, only pisses me off all over again because I really should have seen through the veneer Santiago Cabal wore. He’s good, I’ll grant him that.
I pull my suitcases up to the car at the front of the taxi line. I’m too tired to try to figure out if Russia has Uber. I knock on the driver’s window, ignoring how he looks me up and down or how long it takes for him to lower his window. I wait until he has no choice but to interact.
“Do you speak English?”
“Het.” His abrupt response and nasty stare are the last thing I need.
I barely stop myself from flipping him off as I move down to the next car waiting. And the same thing happens. I get I’m being set up, and there’s not much I can do until I change my tactic and stop being so fucking amenable.
I tap my nails on the driver’s side of the next car. As his window goes down, I reach inside and take a photo of his face. He looks confused when I speak.
“Can you please take me to where Sergey Petrov lives?”
He tries to stare me down, but I’m well and truly past being nice. I’m exhausted, and it's freezing cold. I use the universal language of money, dropping a hundred US dollars in his lap while I pleasantly threaten him. “You either take me to where Mr. Petrov lives, or I’ll send your photo to my people. My people have influence everywhere; they aren’t very nice. They will fly over, find you, then track your family down, ruin them slowly and fuck them over. In front of you.”
He curses me loudly in Russian before spitting on the ground, inches from my feet. At least he unlocks the trunk. After I’ve loaded my own bags, he slams the boot closed, and I smile sweetly at him.
Switching my phone on while he drives, I put a call through to my father. “I’ve arrived. It’s the dead of night here, and there’s no car to pick me up. Or any guards. Considering this alliance of yours has been years in the making, I thought my presence here, on your behalf, would have been more important. Unless, of course, this is another of your lies, Victor. Anyway, I just wanted to check in and let you know I’m here, fulfilling my side of the bargain.” I stop talking, looking at the window as the dark night flashes past. “Oh, and Victor, the next time I’m treated without the respect I deserve, I think I’ll change my tactic. I’m starting to think one of the journalists atThe Times, or one of those other news organizations, might work better, since you’ve got so many people on your books now.”
I know how to play the spoiled daughter of a diplomat. I just choose not to. I’m also not adverse to slipping into that role if, and when, the situation arises. And this is one of those times. I’m not simply a piece on a chessboard; I’m a major player. I have just as much at stake as my father—and my fiancé.
I spend the drive familiarizing myself with the Rublevka district. According to Google, it’s one of the more affluent areas of Moscow, and the embassy my father probably visited is situated within it. The driver continues his silent treatment, but I use the map app, checking landmarks as we pass, including my hotel.
Before I check in, I want to see what’s happening at Petrov’s estate, to get a better understanding of what I’ll have to deal with tomorrow. All of this—standing me up, making it hard for me to get a cab, no welcome committee—was a very deliberate move on Petrov’s part but probably orchestrated by Victor himself.
The traffic is light as we travel down wide, tree-lined streets, past an odd mix of new and old architecture. Most of the homes on the streets are your typical sprawling estates with high fences. There are a few that are more modern in design, but it looks a lot like a Hollywood film set, where everything is overdone and oversized.
The driver slows as we come to one of the largest and most ostentatious displays of wealth I’ve seen since I left Victor’s estate. He flicks on his indicator to turn into a driveway, but I stop him. “No. Turn around and take me to the Four Seasons, please.”
I ignore his angry muttering; it’s just white noise, and I have a rotten headache. Much like I ignore my fiancé’s less-than-subtle message. These “men” are all the same, with their over-the-top egos and pathetic games. Perhaps he thinks like my father, that all women born to powerful men are nothing more than pretty ornaments. Though some probably are, I am not.I’ve spent years since I left home in training for this, because marrying Petrov is the first real step in my takedown of my father.
